Worlds Collide
by x. I Got You First .x
Summary: 24 characters of six fandoms are pulled into the world of The Hunger Games for a round of death and destruction. Prompted by the lovely Brantsteele generator, simply a spot of quick fun. [Rated T because Panem guarantees death.] Come join *Worlds' End*: a multifandom roleplay forum open for all and currently active!
1. The Bloodbath

_Written for one of those "30 Day Fandom Challenges" - for the final day, the challenge was to 'create something mulifandom'. I took it upon myself to insert characters from six different fandoms into the Brantsteele Hunger Games generator. I used all the generated events verbatim and wrote paragraphs for every one in my attempt to both get back to writing and write/finish a HG AU. One-hundred percent not to be taken too seriously and two-hundred percent for fun! No ties with any canon - just a generic Games, total AU. Hope you enjoy. :)_

* * *

**The Bloodbath  
**As the tributes stand on their podiums, the horn sounds.

**_Pepper snatches a bottle of alcohol and a rag._**

The horn sounded and off Pepper ran. She had no clue as to what she should do or where she should head, but she knew enough to get off the podium before the landmines forced her off for inactivity. She dodged between tributes running every which way. Her spine straightened. A backpack! Her eyes caught sight of the black sack's straps, and her feet quickened to catch it. Before she came to it, something collided with her shoulder. For a few seconds, she couldn't tell what was up or down of sideways. All she knew: the grass was cold and damp. Pepper blinked and lifted her head in time to see some Career bearing down on her. No time to rest! She rolled out of the way, grabbed the first item she spied (without even checking), and dashed for the treeline. She didn't bother looking behind her to see where the Career was in relation to her. She pushed on. She pushed harder.

_Survive_.

x- X -x

_**Leta and Kara fight for a bag. Kara gives up and retreats.**_

Kara sprinted for the bag. There was no way she would head into the Cornucopia, as that was almost a guaranteed, instant death. She wrapped her fingers around a backpack strap several yards away from the structure, hardly breaking stride in her run. Ten metres… nine metres… eight metres… she almost made it to the forest's edge. Her arm was ripped backwards. She struggled forward, but the force was too strong, holding the backpack in place and, therefore, keeping Kara from advancing any closer to the treeline. Kara whirled around and tugged thrice against the elder girl's hold. The girl didn't budge. "Let. Go!" Kara commanded. The girl responded by tugging back. A game of tug-of-war befell them. Kara struggled to keep her grip on the straps, when an idea occurred to her. "Listen, you're that girl from Nine, right?" she asked, remembering the wavy, brown hair and quietly mischievous habits from training. "What if we were allies? We team up, we help each other survive. Maybe we can take down a Career or two?"

Leta shook her head. "It's better to go alone," she said, displaying one last attempt to rip the bag's strap free from Kara's hand. In a moment of weakness, Kara's fingers unfurled from the bag and the bag swung towards Leta with new found momentum. Startled and admittedly scared now that her one idea for a resource was gone, Kara turned and fled for the trees.

_**Hazel runs away from the Cornucopia.**_

_The Cornucopia is a waste of time_, her mentor's voice rang in Hazel's head. _Survive based off your skills, not off who can get the most advantageous supplies_. Hazel heeded the warning, reading between the lines; it's a trap. All the blood and carnage spilled, it could easily be avoided if one was smart. Hazel didn't consider herself particularly gifted in the area of intelligence, but she knew enough to be practical. In training, she had focused on the wilderness survival stations. She knew how to find food and water, how to stay hidden but not stagnant, and how to make a weapon from sticks and stones. She wasn't confident, but she had a determination now. With a goal in mind, Hazel plunged into the forest.

_**Mordred runs away from the Cornucopia.**_

Everyone was taller than him, Mordred, the twelve-year-old child from District Nine. He wasn't deaf, he heard what nearly everyone had said behind his back (and in front, for that matter, whenever the Careers were concerned). He was young and generally inexperienced. He was peaceful and didn't want to take a life. _He wouldn't last a day passed the Bloodbath!_ tributes and Capitolites alike jeered. Mordred was intent to prove them wrong. He _could_ make it! However, standing on the podium, blue eyes scanning the twenty-three others, he realised the fear fluttering in his stomach like a frantic butterfly. When the horn sounded, little Mordred burst in the opposite way of all the others. Not dying today.

**_Leo runs away from the Cornucopia._**

Leo scanned the supplies flowing out of the Cornucopia. He sized up each item's usefulness, easily discarding the seemingly useless ones. What he needed was a hammer of some sort; he was good with those. The countdown ended with a horn blast, and Leo shot himself forward. A weapon, any weapon. He spied the love of his life – aka the hammer of his dreams – and tweaked his trajectory. At the last second, he ran into the girl from District Four. The pair of them tumbled to the ground. Snapped out of his tunnel vision, Leo's eyes widened. He scrambled to his feet, backing away slowly. It dawned on him that this tribute hailed from a Career district. _Fight or flight_. There was no way he could fight a Career! So, he turned and fled, hammer forgotten.

_**Freya grabs a shovel.**_

Freya was by no means a Career, despite hailing from the fourth district. Her mother had died shortly after she was born, so she was told, and her father had been a lowly fisherman. They had no money to spare for the training, and her father had no will to see his only daughter live to become one thing: a warrior. Four had more non-volunteers for the Games than any of the three Career Districts, so when Freya was reaped, it wasn't unusual that she hadn't been spared from her fate. She hated it, but there was little she could do to change it now. She could only survive. She thought she could do it! She sprinted for the supplies of the Cornucopia, as maybe her District status would help her a degree in the Bloodbath. Just as she reached out for a bag, a boy with a '12' on his jacket sleeve crashed into her and sent both bodies to the ground. Pinned to the grass, she struggled to breath. She brought a leg up to kick him from behind, but he shifted off of her before it collided. When his frame receded into the trees, Freya picked herself back up and grabbed the shovel lying partially obscured in the grass.

**_Piper grabs a jar of fishing bait while Prim gets fishing gear._**

Piper had a gift of appealing to the younger tributes. In training, she had gotten along with Rue and Mordred, the kids from Eleven, and made the promise of temporary alliance with the least noticed girl, Primrose Everdeen. They made a pact, sworn into permanency through the means of pinky promise, to work together for Bloodbath supplies. The rules they laid out: stay to the outskirts, do not engage physically, and leave before the last twelve tributes. Piper nodded to Prim from her platform. As their podiums were almost directly opposite one another, the nod wasn't too obvious in indicating that the pair were allies. It was only natural to look ahead; Piper used that to her advantage. The horn blasted. Piper charged for the closest item. She shoved her shoulder into the tribute running beside her before scooping up the glass jar. _Eugh_, she wrinkled her nose, looking at the fishing bait inside. Trying not to squirm uncomfortably, she ran for Prim on the other side. Being thin, she had the upper hand when it came to weaving between the chaos, unscathed save for a small knife nicking her arm. She glanced over her shoulder, spying a white '8' on the boy's shoulder before she righted herself. "Have something? Anything?" she huffed, halting before Prim. The little girl nodded, showing the wooden fishing pole she had managed. Piper continued, "Perfect! Let's run!" Together, they ran for the safety of the leafy, green canopies.

_**Morgana runs away from the Cornucopia.**_

"Where do you think _you're_ going?" Morgana snarled at the redhead sprawled across the ground. "Think you can live? I'm tempted to let you run, just to see how long you'd last." Morgana had no plans to let this girl run away, however. She raised her sword, prepared to stab downwards. At the last second, the redhead rolled to the side and scrambled to her feet. Without a pause, she darted away, and Morgana spun on her heel to track her movements. _No_ one escaped her!

"HEY!" a male shouted from behind her. Pain blossomed in her shoulder. Green eyes flicked away from the receding red-haired girl and fell instead upon the silver knife sprouting from her scapula. She glanced up, enraged.

"The boy from Five," she drawled, "protecting your District partner? Cute." She launched herself at him. Pain and anger made her reckless. The boy dodged and yanked the knife from her shoulder. She howled and slashed her sword. He ducked underneath the arc of imminent death, rolled against the ground, sprung up in a surge of adrenaline, and then ran. Flat-out ran. Ran for the last place he had seen his partner. Morgana growled before turning away from the sight. She'd bide her time. She'd wait to have her revenge. For now, her wound needed attending to.

**_Tony snatches a pair of sais._**

"HEY!" Tony shouted. No way in Hell was he going to let that Career kill Pepper. He flung one of his newfound sais – twin knives that had been lying, undisturbed, in the grass – at the District One girl. A huff in relief escaped him, maybe even a slight twitch upwards of his lips, as the knife caught its target: her shoulder. His shoulders dropped as he watched Pepper evade the sword point and dash into the woods. He made a mental note of where she disappeared before charging towards Morgana with a newfound determination. He dodged her arm and yanked the knife from her shoulder blade. She slashed her sword, but Tony ducked underneath it's destructive arch and rolled across the ground. He bounced back up unscathed.

"You want something?" he taunted, unable to help himself. "Better aim? A cheeseburger?" When she growled his way, preparing for a lunged attack, he leapt backwards. "That's my cue." He swished around and pelted for the place Pepper had last been seen. Almost at the edge of the clearing, Tony spotted the boy from Six and reached out to grab his arm. If he were to survive, alliances were a must. Without breaking stride, he steered the Six away from the clearing.

_**Jace accidentally steps on a landmine.**_

A technicality? Was that really how the famous warrior, trained since essentially birth, feared and respected by the Career Districts alike, the one and only Jace Herondale was going to die? The countdown rang over the clearing, echoed back by the mountains towering over the forestry, echoed back by the gap in the trees caused by the white-rapids river. It was lovely. Real lovely. Jace could imagine it in some days time. Even when the sun would sink on decimated landscape, strewn with the blood of this year's tributes, it would be a lovely landscape – swaying trees, vivid green grass, purple mountain majesty in the distance. Beautiful. Jace would see the arena through until that day. Jace would watch the sun set on a liberated world. Jace would find his way back home – back to District Two.

"Three!" announced the countdown.

"Two!" Jace deserved that. Jace would earn that. Jace had the- "One!" He sprinted off the podium. The horn came next, and its sound intermingled with the sound of an explosion and the air pressure suddenly stripping his ears. He flew into the air… and all turned black.

_**Arthur runs away from the Cornucopia.**_

Arthur always took that Jace to be a fool, wrinkling his nose at the thought of forming a Career alliance with the boy from Two. The explosion rang in his ears, mingling with the signalling horn, as he barrelled for the Cornucopia. Surprising? Arthur shook his head with a smirk. Not at all. He reached the metal structure first and grabbed the first broadsword he spotted. He spun it experimentally before diving into the action. Through the chaos hurtling every which way, Arthur spied his sister caught in a struggle with the (surprisingly capable) boy from District Five. Shoving the tribute he was currently hassling aside, Arthur hustled for that scene on the outskirts. By the time he reached the spot, Morgana was peeling off from the Bloodbath, galloping rather lopsidedly as if she were in severe pain. Arthur charged after her, leaving carnage to the rest of the tributes.

_**Steve runs away from the Cornucopia.**_

Steve pelted into the soon-to-be mess. Out of nowhere, a boy jumped before him and wrestled Steve to the ground, maliciousness glinting in his eyes. The disorientation faded, Steve pushed the boy off of him, and he rolled out from underneath. He slingshotted the boy around and took off the other way. He nearly made it to the clearing when another boy, one with a '5' on his sleeve and the one he met during training, pulled him aside. Steve's defenses rose, but it became clear that Tony meant not to kill Steve but to drag him along. Steve fell in step beside him. _Alliances could be good_, he figured. Chasing what, he didn't know, yet for now he cared not. As long as it was away from the Bloodbath.

_**Theseus runs into the cornucopia and hides.**_

Worried for her safety, Theseus tried scanning the chaos for Leta. She wasn't to be seen. Swallowing his fear of the worst, he slowed the closer he became to the Cornucopia. The Careers were all occupied with themselves or other matters, and Theseus used the distractions as cover to sneak his way into the structure himself. Among the boxes, he found a crevice which would be concealed; only someone who _knew_ Theseus was there would spot the hiding place and sense something as being off. He crawled into the space and make sure he was covered by the surrounding boxes. He may be brave, but as much as he hated something as cowardly and laughable as hiding, the other option was to partake in useless war: slaying twenty-three others for no other reason than to entertain the rich and lazy. Theseus would not be a part of that system. He had a younger brother back home for which to set a better example. If he were to win, it would be without needless slaughter. In his hidden space, Theseus waited, ears straining to detect any gradual decline of battle noises.

_**Clary finds a bag full of explosives.**_

Clary heard an explosion, but she thought nothing on it until she had a bag of explosives over one shoulder and a short sword grasped in the other hand. She turned every which way to find her one true ally, Jace of District Two, yet when she couldn't spy him, her mind immediately jumped to the worst conclusion. "No, no," she muttered, double and triple checking every tribute. He wasn't standing. He wasn't fighting. _He should be fighting! Where was he!?_ Her eyes caught the sight of a body in a heap on the ground and... her breath caught in her throat. That… That couldn't be him…

_**Rue severely slices Gwen with a sword.**_

Rue's feet responded to the explosion by slapping the grass clearing harder. She knew she couldn't fight, so she would run like hell instead. At least, until she found something to climb. An aerial view was preferred, as she liked having a broader scope of the arena. (Plus, it reminded her of her duties back home.) She came to the Cornucopia, having dodged the tributes crossing her path without so much as a confrontation, and contemplated climbing the metal. There were some hand and footholds. She reckoned she could. Someone was behind her though, obvious by the way their feet hurried through the grass – an undeniable shushing. Taken by a shot of adrenaline, Rue grabbed the first weapon she could find - a sword - and brandished it as she spun. It was terribly heavy, but it managed its one true job. The steel cut deeply into the girl's abdomen. Shocked by the dense liquid now soaking the tribute girl's t-shirt, Rue dropped the blade. She had just– that she had done– this girl was probably going to– was she _dying?_ Dead? Dead. Rue had managed to kill someone?! Horror laced the thought. On the whim of mere fright, the youngin from Eleven fled the scene if the crime. To the comfort of the trees, it was!

_**Merlin grabs a shield leaning on the cornucopia.**_

Merlin watched in shock as Gwen collapsed. The little girl standing small victor seemed just as shocked as he. He froze, wanting to retaliate yet not wanting to harm a little girl. His morals conflicted, Merlin stood an obvious target for the District One boy. A sword swung down for his head, but Merlin shook himself away at the last second. He grabbed a shield leaning against the exterior of the Cornucopia wall and brought it up over his head. The sword struck with an ear-shattering clang, but Merlin kept his stance with only a scrunch of his nose in response. The blond Career made to attack him again, when something so obviously caught his attention. The Career peeled away, chasing after his injured District mate and leaving Merlin to blink at the surprising turn of events.

**_Jonathan runs away from the Cornucopia._**

Jonathan leapt at the unsuspecting boy of muscle. Who knew tributes from Six could be so strong and well-toned, as the same observation of muscle could have gone for his District partner, Kara. He threw a punch, but his fist was stopped by Six. He threw another, but that was blocked as well, this time by a forearm. At that moment, rage clouded his eyes. He reeled back, intent on seeing this boy end, when a hand caught his ribs. He was thrown back, dragged around in a circle, and then slingshotted towards the forest. Jonathan stumbled. His feet clattered forward, unable to halt his momentum without seriously risking a complete fall. By the time he felt as if he could stand still without falling, his feet were at the edge of the forest, far removed from the chaos within the circle. _My, the kid from Six was strong_. Heading back in would be suicide.

_**Peter severely slices Magnus with a sword.**_

Hiding wouldn't work, although his small frame would certainly be an advantage. Running wouldn't work, as his meager lungs would be severely constricted within seconds. Following the horn and explosion, Peter jumped off the pedestal and circled the outside of the starting ring at a jog. He nervously glanced at the inner-circle chaos when steel glinted in the corner of his eye. No one was anywhere near it... Peter raced towards it, ignoring the flare of pain in his chest. He scooped up the leather handle, spinning around with it flailing in his right hand. He was not expert in weapon handling. The sickle caught in the side of a tribute backing towards him, and with Peter's momentum, ripped across the tribute's back. Peter stumbled back, fists clenching – appalled – of what he never intended to do. His breathing, already laboured from the running, rattled inside an empty chest. Panic pressed in like night against the windows of his and his aunt's cabin back home. So shocked was he that he didn't see the knife go in his side until it was too late. As the boy Peter attacked slumped against the ground, head first, Peter spun on the spot and dashed away. With his hand pressing hard against the flow of blood, the fourteen-year-old boy dashed away, doing his best to keep the limp from affecting his progress.

**_Lena finds a backpack full of camping equipment._**

Everything was closing in on her. She thought she could make it if she ran through it all, paid no attention to the others, and grabbed something – _anything_ – laying on the ground. She wasn't picky, she could adapt to whatever bag she grabbed. (She hoped.) She did not account for the chaos pressing in on her like the humidity during a thunderstorm. Lena froze, halfway between her podium and the bag of her desire. A boy took opportunity from her paralysation, shoved her to the ground, and raced for the backpack. _No_, Lena thought, _that's mine_. She rolled to her feet and lunged for the boy, dragging him back by the ankles. As he fell, she stood up. As soon as she had the back over her shoulder, Lena darted for the leafy green canopies, metal clanging and whacking her in the back with every step she took

**_Percy takes a sickle from inside the cornucopia._**

Percy hated the Games. He would never kill anyone in a thousand years; if he had to outlast them, so be it. All he knew, he was going to make it back to his mother in Four. He raced for one of the bags on the floor. Upon noticing that someone else was charging for the same bag, Percy poured on his speed. Weirdly, she froze in spot – her face radiated paralysing fear. A glimmer of instinct urged him to kill her, to take advantage of her weakness and ensure he wouldn't be the _last_ to die. "No!" he muttered under his breath, appalled by the urge. Instead, he shoved her to the side and continued for the bag. _No killing_. _Just survival_. He spurred on speed, but something – _fingers_ – wrapped around his ankle. He collapsed on the ground. Pain sprouted in his chin; a whistle-like shrill pierced his ears on impact. Groaning, he slowly picked himself up. Great… the backpack was taken. Percy scored the rusted sickle laying a few feet away and grasped the worn hilt. It wasn't perfect, but it would do. Now? It was time to survive.

* * *

_Hope you enjoyed my Brantsteele generated madness! I tried my best to keep everything as in-character as I could, but - obviously - with some of the prompts, I had to tweak some things for everything to be fulfilled. This is me, Lilly, peacing out – and don't forget a review. ;)_


	2. Day One: Peter

_Day One. Morning._

* * *

**Peter bleeds out due to untreated injuries.**

Peter stumbles across the leaf-strewn ground. His toes kick at roots and rocks and his hands scrape at tree bark, but Peter hardly recognises the pain. His body is too busy listening to the scream of his side where the knife pierced him. He looks down at his right hand and loses his balance in shock. His shoulder slams into a trunk. He can't breathe– he can't see, everything blurs– is he crying or passing out, he can't tell, maybe both. He can't comprehend the sound of birds above him; it all sounds like three tin cans rustling around in a metal garbage tin. His hand is stained red. Red, like cherries. Red, like Aunt May's mixing bowl, the most vibrant thing in the entire household. Peter smiles weakly at the memory, but any more strain and he will collapse in pain. He can't collapse– he has to rest– he has to make it back– he has to heal– he has to–

Peter tries to lurch himself forward, and for a second, he'd walking. His foot kicks at another root. He falls. His head collides with something hard – he can't know what, can't see, can't think – and he lets out a loud yelp, a cry, a shout. Pain wracks his body. He can't move. He grunts and squirms in attempt to roll over, but his side is about to burst into flame. It's red hot and about to explode. Fireworks, he sees fireworks in his mind eye, the kind that his best friend, Ned, smacked together behind their two-roomed, District Three house. Ned was brilliant; _I'm going to miss that dude_.

Peter's heart sprang into a frenzy. He's going to die – oh god, what about May, what about Ned – and there is nothing he can do. He's bleeding out from his side, red dripping down his side and dropping to the dirt. He can't think straight thanks to the fireworks in his brain. He can't walk with a twisted ankle let alone the cramping muscles in his side. He's dying, he's dying, he's dying...

"Help!" he croaks. He surprises himself with how loud it actually sounds, or maybe that is just his ears amplifying everything because, oh god, why are the birds trying to deafen him? "Help! I'm here!– I'm down here!– Hey! I can't–! I can't–! I'm– help! _Somebody, help!–_"

He chokes on some saliva. He takes that as inspiration and immediately quiets himself save for the rattling sobs heaving from his chest. He cannot help it; he is lying face-down in a pile of leaves, everything hurts, and he just wants to go home. He wants to see May one last time and hug her and tell her he's all right, everything is going to be alright, he will be fine. He wants to see Ned again and talk about that story they were going to write, the one about robots and space fights and warriors as trained as the District Two tributes fighting for the good of humanity. They were going to overthrow the evil overlord. The galaxy would be safe again. He wants his friend again. He wants to laugh. He wants to make _Ned_ laugh. He wants to have one more night in his own bed, wrapped in his own blanket, feeling secure and happy and surrounded by love. He wants to die surrounded by love, not by early morning fog and the held breath of a thousand spectators waiting for that canon shot.

Peter still cannot roll over, but he doesn't want to. He is imagining the warmth of the hearth and May's arms around him. There's a little draft coming from the windows, but as long as the fire is roaring, he feels completely warm. The fire, May's arms, the blankets shared between them – he's safe. Tomorrow, he will rise early from bed and race to see Ned. Tomorrow, they will start to write their book. Tomorrow, the world will be back to normal. But first, he has to rest.

So he does.


	3. Day One: Tony

_Day One. Late Morning._

* * *

**Tony discovers a cave.**

If Tony has to drag Steve's stubborn ass any further, he may as well lose it. 'Drag' may not be the literal term, but it certainly conveys the correct _mental_ sentiment. As he walks, Tony searches his mind in hopes of rediscovering the reason why he reached out and brought Steve along in the first place. Truth is, he can't find it. But, hey, it's a good exercise in brain-occupation, so he continues to ponder while he hikes over hill and under branch.

"Where are we going?"

Tony doesn't answer that for a solid chunk of time. How long was it? Say... a whole minute? Two? Five years? It possibly felt that way only to him.

Is it hard to keep his mouth shut for long? One could say that.

"Away," he finally says, as he has no urge to give Steve anything more specific than that. In truth, he wants to find Pepper. The one problem with that desire is not knowing where Pepper ended up.

"Perfectly vague," comes the reply, and Tony can hear arms slap down against one's sides meaning that Steve exasperatedly thrown his arms out to the side in reaction to Tony.

"It doesn't take a _genius_ to figure out the 'from what' part, Speed-o," Tony snaps back over his shoulder.

"Very funny. 'Speed-o'. Because the train is fast, right? So funny, I forgot to laugh."

"S'fine," Tony answers without missing a beat. "I prefer you not talking or making any other, general conversational sounds."

Nothing but the sound of footsteps and the birds above persist while they cover more ground.

"So, you're a self-proclaimed smartypants, huh?"

"Sounds about right. My pants _are_ incredibly smart, if the Capitol has anything to say about it." Tony mumbles, in a disgruntled manner, the last part about the Capitol. "What do _you_ think?"

"That you're all talk."

Tony's boot lands forcefully in a patch of mud, but instead stopping to complain, he pauses, mutters an accepting "okay" (as if he's already accepted that the universe has it out for him), and then moves along again. "About the _pants_, Speed-o."

"Really sticking with the name," Steve huffs from behind, incredulous.

"Got a problem with that?"

"No, no, all down to you," Steve says, and it sounds genuine enough, but Tony – master of sarcasm – is able to detect a trace of defiance. He smirks. _The kid has it in him, after all!_

He cannot reply yet, however, as standing before them is a gaping hole in the side of the mountain. Light does not travel very deep into the cavern, meaning it is large enough for two people at least. In front of the cave is a stream, cutting across from right to left and acting as a barrier. Water bounces across the rocks as lightheartedly as a five-year-old girl skipping her way to the market: old enough for independence, young enough to not care about the horrors of daily Panem. A display of happiness, of peace, and how Tony misses such feelings. Freedom, contentment? He forgot their sweet scent years ago.

Poised above the stream, standing on a small boulder with a spear all readied in her grasp, is a sight which brings back a little of the youth he can hardly remember. It is none other than his District partner, his second longest friend and dearest console. Tony's next breath streams outward so effortless and relieved, his shoulders drop their usual tension. He even smiles.

"Potts."


	4. Day One: Morgana & Leo

_Day One. Noon._

* * *

**Morgana sees smoke rising in the distance, but decides not to investigate.**

Morgana finds herself looking into the distance. From the top of a tree at the top of a hill, she has a lovely view. She sees trees ablaze with an orange hue. She sees a hawk flying by. She sees smoke rising in the distance and somehow it contributes to the spectacular visage. The perfect Autumn, she thinks. If she has to die here, at least it will be in the most beautiful of arenas. She can almost thank the gamemakers for the brilliance. Almost. Then she remembers the reality of their job: to make this place a living hell.

Suddenly, she is less enthused by the scenery.

_Beauty can be deceptive_, the voice of her trainer from District One echoes in her mind. _And you, my dear, will work perfectly._

She sees the hawk as a bird of prey, a ruthless hunter. She sees the coloured leaves as trees on the brink of hibernation, a sign of deathly Winter. She sees smoke as what it truly is: a sign of other tributes she will have to kill lest she be the one killed.

She sees the smoke and decides to stay put. _Not today_, she reasons.

She leans back against the branches and stares into the endless blue of heaven. Today isn't the day to be taking risks. She is smart enough to know what chances to take and what chances to leave.

So, she knows, not today.

* * *

_Day One. Afternoon._

* * *

**Leo receives clean water from an unknown sponsor.**

Leo settles down for the rest of the day, uncertain what else he should be doing. He knows what the Games are, and he knows the objective – to find and kill people, as many as possible – but he also knows he can't do that. He just can't. He will survive if he has to – and he has to – but he will not kill. The screams from behind the factory's steel doors haunt him enough, he doesn't need more voices chiming in.

But that leaves him in the here and now, a loss for what to do.

He isn't hungry yet. He isn't thirsty. His legs are sore from running over the rolling hills. His toes throb from the many times he stubbed them on tree roots and rocks, but already the pain is negligible. He hears no predators – tribute or animal – nearby. He cranes his head up to the sky; the blue is darkening but the progression is slow.

Maybe he should make a fire. Or maybe he should hunt. Maybe he should massage his legs. Or maybe he should sleep, let his toes heal over the course of night. Maybe he should find a tree and scout ahead for water.

He goes back to his first instinct. Fire.

Leo can make an excellent fire. His arsonist abilities and improvised battle moves earned him a solid six in private sessions.

He smiles as he gets to work. He drags stones together and fashions them into a circle. He takes the sticks he collected from around the base of the nearest tree and leans them together with the care and precision of someone making a card house. An excursion fifty feet away leads him to the perfect two fire-starter stones. He scrapes them together and embraces the scratching. He smiles again; this is what he was born for.

_Beep-beep-beep_.

It comes from somewhere above his head.

_Beep-beep-beep_.

Leo's head swivels left and right. What is that? _Where_ is it?

_Beep-beep-beep_.

Brown eyes dart to the uppermost position. He cranes his neck to the canopy.

There's a metal canister hanging from a branch, a string of its parachute caught on the end. It's stuck! he notices. How to get it: climb. Leo surveys the branches, the trunk, all the way down to the base where the roots curl in and out of the ground. _Alright_, he thinks, rubbing his hands together in preparation. He spies a rock and from the rock he can just about reach the lowest branch. From there, he'll haul himself up, balance across to the main bundle of limbs and branches, and see things through to completion by using the limbs and branches as a ladder up and around.

Easy.

The first part is. Leo has no trouble swinging up and clambering over until he's hugging the limb on which the cannister's parachute is caught. It is a tad farther out of reach than he anticipated, so Leo decides to crawl like a sloth to the end. He shuffles his hands forward only to follow with his feet a second later. Hands forward first, feet forward after. Hands first, feet later.

The limb dips towards the ground as he reaches the end. Leo doesn't think he should inch any further along the branch. He may fall! And then all his efforts until that point would have been a moot point! His fingers barely brushed the caught string, however. He reaches for the canister, fingers splayed until the skin crackles with strain. He cannot grasp it. He cannot grasp the string it is hanging from. There is only one thing to attempt now.

Leo braces himself. His muscles clench up and gaze narrows until there is only one thing in his line of vision: the canister. He, the branch, and the canister are the only things in his world. Sucking in a breath, the boy from Twelve springs forward. He grabs the can, pulls it to his chest, and curls into a ball. The force from his body ribs the string from the branch. The gravity from the Earth yanks him straight down. His back hits the leaf-strewned soil. He cannot breathe; the wind was knocked out of him. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water; his lungs are flailing for air. It's uncomfortable, like a vacuum was positioned at his mouth and turned to full blast, but he knows he will live. And he knows one more thing.

He knows the taste of triumph. The canister is his now. His efforts were all worth it.


	5. Day One: Pepper

_Day One. Late Afternoon._

* * *

**Pepper fishes.**

Pepper cannot remember another time in which she was as ecstatic to see another human being as now. The moment she sees a familiar head of dark emerge from the trees, a grin spreads over her cheeks. The breath lodged in her chest, the one she was unaware of until half a second ago, suddenly releases and it feels like the sky lifted from her shoulders.

A familiar face, a caring face, a friendly face. A face from home.

_Tony's _face.

"Catch anything yet?" he greets.

She shakes her head. Her grin flickers and falters. "No," she admits.

"No? Come on, Potts, that's supposed to be _your _specialty."

"It's not the most _reliable_ of hunting methods, Tony. And I'm not from District Four," she says in defense. "Who's that?"

Her nod indicates the blond on Tony's right, and Tony has to glance to the side and study the young man for a whole two seconds before answering. He faces forward again to reply.

"Steve Rogers. District Six. He's useful.. Probably." Again, he turns to Steve to address him straight-on. "You're useful, right? I hope."

"Yeah. I'm useful," says Steve with a bite to his tone.

Pepper tries a consoling smile for Steve's sake before rolling her eyes toward Tony.

"What'd you do?" she says.

Tony blinks. "Do what?"

With a smile, Pepper tells Steve, "I'll apologise for whatever he's done, be it annoying or whatever."

"I'll be fine," Steve says and reciprocates the smiling. Is that a good-natured smirk she can detect? "I can handle a little annoying."

"What?" tries Tony, still processing the apology alongside Pepper's implied meaning with 'what did you do'. Pepper catches a grimace on her friend's face, or was that a disapproving frown, but it is gone so quick, she half believes she imagined it. But odd expression aside, Tony continues with his train of thought: "What do you mean, 'what'd you do'? I didn't do anything!"

"You always do something."

"Oh, come on! _Always_?"

"_Yes_, always!"

"I don't think that's really all that fair. Do you think that's fair?" He poses the last sentence at Steve but, instead of waiting for a reply, bulldozes on. "It's _not_ fair.–"

"It _is_ fair. It's _totally_ fair.–"

"Guys," Steve interrupts, or tries to. His contribution is brushed aside by both tributes of Five.

"I don't _always _do something."

"Name _one_ time you didn't do something totally Tony-like."

"Tony-like? Wow, really feeling it right now. The love. You feel it yet?"

Pepper shakes her head. "You're impossible, you know that?"

In Tony's moment of stunned silence, the boy from Six tries to interject – "Guys. We should be looking for supplies, finding food." – but the bickering tributes pay him no attention. It is mainly Tony is who ignores Steve's logical next step. Pepper shifts her chin away from the young mechanic, hoping to confirm the suggestion with a kindly order, but Tony comes to his wits once more to reply.

"I seriously thought you were going to say handsome or something."

With a deadpan expression, the ginger attempt to bore a hole straight through Tony's forehead with nothing but an unwavering stare.

"Guys?" Steve tries again.

"Adorable? Extravagantly good-looking?"

She shakes her head, shares an exasperated look with Steve, opens her mouth to say something related to survival,–

"I mean, I'll _take_ impossible. I guess that means unattainably attractive."

"No. It means what it means."

"So… _not_ attractive? You're sending me some mixed signals, here, Pep."

"I'm not send–!" She takes a deep breath. "Honestly, _how_ are we friends? How were we even friends back _home_ because _sometimes _– honestly, _sometimes_ – I feel like wiping that _stupid_ smirk off that face!"

Tony blinks. Another moment of silence ensues.

"I mean…" He searches around for the word, using those doubts she know he has as fuel for his false ego and romantic appeal, "you could try." But his enticement doesn't work on Pepper.

"Tony. You, are, unbe_liev_ably, impossible. End of discussi–."

She falls silent. Tony blinks, frowns, and tilts his head some to one side. Confusion rewrites his face to greet her sudden decision for silence. _He's gone_, she thinks. _He just left_. Tony opens his mouth, no doubt to say something profoundly dumb (for such an intelligent person), when he catches the nothing in his periphery and looks at the spot Steve once stood. He and Pepper lock eyes and at once their banter falls away, swept by the river, whisked downstream.

_He's gone_, the two of them think.

Where to? Why? They know not. They know only one thing:

_He's gone_.


	6. Day One: Theseus

_Day One. Afternoon._

* * *

**Mordred, Percy, Leta, and Piper hunt for other tributes.**

Five tributes walk in silence. It feels like an entire day has passed since the events of the Cornucopia, yet it has only been some hours. Theseus holds his head up despite the fear he feels inside. He glances over at Leta, who walks beside him, and notes her straight posture and grim expression. She, too, is masking her true emotions. He learned to tell what she was truly thinking after all the years of going to school with her. She wasn't only Newt's best friend, but - just six months back - she and him indulged themselves in their fiery urges. The kiss, although fantastic, placed them in the ambiguous grey between two definite labels.

Theseus discretely reaches his hand for her and catches her pinky. He feels her trace his fingers with her fingers before tracing her tips across his hand. She gives it a reassuring squeeze before pulling away. He understands - of course he understands - but his heart still plummets at her quick escape all the same.

"Are we planning on resting any time soon?" pipes up the girl in the back. _Piper_, Theseus remembers.

Without turning around to give attention to the question posed, Mordred calls over his shoulder, "We won't rest until we find ourselves a tribute."

"So we can kill him?" asks an unenthusiastic Percy, who walks in front of Theseus and Leta, technically, but off to the far left as if to signal to the squirrels and the birds that he is not a part of this group

"No," Mordred starts, already sounding ticked off if his sarcasm was anything to go by, "so we can invite him to a tea party and play pretend. _Obviously_ to kill."

Percy's jaw tightens, and Theseus can about feel the teeth grinding into each other as the boy attempts to keep his cool.

"Bloodthirsty demon," Percy mutters.

Now. Theseus is no expert in common courtesy amongst the other districts, let alone Percy's of District Four, but he is fairly certain a comment like that - if heard - can incite the rage of anyone.

Thes adjusts his jaw to show no emotion regarding the comment despite a pool of concern beginning to swell in his gut. He exchanges swift glances with Leta.

Mordred slows his pace and sends Percy a hard stare. "If you're wise," he says, "you'd watch what you say around me."

"Nah," Percy blows off. "Wise is more my girlfriend's thing."

"I would make it _your_ thing, if I were you."

The boy from Four shrugs, shoves his hands into his pocket, and inclines his head to the leaf-strewn ground.

It is Mordred's turn to mutter, now. "With that attitude, you won't last two days," comes his lowered voice.

"And with _that_ clarity, you won't see me coming," taunts Percy in return, riding the frustration train. Theseus cannot entirely blame him for the escalation, as they have been walking the entire day without a break or food, but with such stress, taunts will not be well received by a honourable boy like Mordred.

In a blink of an eye, Mordred's frame stands three feet closer, almost entirely closing the gap between him and Theseus. It takes Theseus a moment to realise that Mordred stopped moving completely. He can't carry on to walk? Leta has to reach an arm out to stop Theseus just before a collision can make matters worse.

"Are you so desperate for a fight?" Mordred rounds on Percy. Everyone else eyes the axe in his hand apprehensively. He holds it down low, hanging at his side, but his glare signifies that he will use it if things lead to a physical fight.

Percy's right hand flies to his belt where a bronze sword is strapped. He and Mordred are the only ones who managed to secure a weapon. Theseus had been busy evading attacks, Leta had been surveying the scene for supplies (and him, her District Nine parter), and Piper… only god knew what she had been doing, but Theseus spotted no weapon or weapon-like shape on her person when they first started walking and none can be seen in the here and now.

Back to simmering explosion, Theseus instinctively knows things will not go well, especially as Mordred begins stalking up to District Four.

Knowing he has to intervene before they lose an ally and start the betrayal a tad too early, Theseus throws his arms into the air - palms out, as if in surrender - and steps between the two.

"Stop it! Both of you!" he commands. He feels powerful, like he can command anybody to do his bidding. He feels a tidal wave of confidence surge around him, taking the amount he usually possesses and building it up, up, up until he refuses to accept inattentive someones.

The pair still glare at each other, but neither dare to speak.

Somewhere inside him, Theseus smiles.

"This is the most idiotic thing either of you could do right now," he continues. "Strength in _numbers_. You want to win? Swallow your pride and work together, for at least _one single day_."

By the looks in their eyes, Theseus figures he holds a fifty-fifty chance of being tossed aside, maimed, or fatally skewered.

"I'd rather die than let him help me!" retorts Mordred, readying his axe by his side.

Percy is quick on the comeback: "That's stupid. You _want_ to die?"

"Dying certainly is the more honourable option, at this point!"

Percy has the nerve to laugh.

Enraged, Mordred thrusts his weapon forward.

Motivated by sheer bravado, Theseus steps in sync with Mordred. He is a second too late to block the young man entirely but exactly on time to catch an axe blade with his waist.

Sharp. Sharpened. Sharpened to a deadly point.

Flames. Fire. Scorching hot.

Tense. Squeeze. No. No! No! Scream.

He cannot scream.

All his muscles cease to respond. His legs crumple like cooked spaghetti. He bends at the waistline, falling to his bum, arms clutching his lower torso. Something hits his back, and he blinks up at a white sky. There are lines curving into the sky, lines with green, and his hands begin heating. The wind chill no longer bothers the hands coated in a sticky wetness.

_Sticky_? he thinks.

He gasps for breath.

"Thes!" A girl. Young woman. A brown blur falls to her knees, brown fingers wrap around his…presses against his bleeding belly. Theseus only sees a mop of black tangles, blurred through a film of tears. The mop faces upwards. The mop rises slowly to her feet… "You," she growls, "how? _Why?_ You." Theseus blinks away some of the wet film over his eyes. "You, are, paying for that!"

She leaps at him, but heis nimble. He darts around a tree and pelts the opposite way. Leta pours on speed. She has one thought, and that is of justice. Of revenge.

"Leta, no!" Theseus attempts to call back, but his voice is feeble and wracked in pain; it cannot travel far. Already, her mind fixates on Mordred's blood, Mordred's death, and he cannot reel her back. Not matter how much he craves her, needs her by his side. He is rendered powerless.

Piper crouches by Theseus's side. She takes his hands and uncovered his wound. He doesn't ask if she has any medical expertise, since it is evident in the way she busies herself.

But Theseus can't have this. A wound like this means death if not treated properly. They have no materials for something like this. He shakes his head. He clasps his hand around her wrist.

"Follow her," he urges. "Follow her. Make sure, that she– that she's safe."

Piper stares at him.

Blank, round, kaleidoscope eyes.

"Go!"

"I can help–."

"Yes.. Leta."

With a nod, she scampers away. Theseus figures it is his hallucinating brain, addled by blood loss, when he sees a dagger clutched in her hand.

"You, too." He knows Percy is still there, but he needs no protection. He needs as much guard around Leta as possible. If he is to die - and it is looking to be the case - he must _know_ her security is insured. Otherwise, the end will be fitful and reluctant.

"Don't worry, Thes," Percy replies. "I'll make sure."

Percy grips his sword more tightly before peeling away in Piper's direction.

Theseus sits back and watches until Percy's back recedes over the farthest hill. He tries not to think about how alone he is, or that he will die this way. He tries to think of Leta and the tender kisses she gives; he thinks of Newt and his fascination with animals; he thinks of the time he and Newt saved a baby bird who had fallen out of a tree and broke a wing. They nursed him back to health before setting the creature free again. Soon, Theseus lets go of himself, as well.

He passes out from sheer exhaustion.

* * *

_Day One. Late Afternoon._

* * *

**Clary tends to Theseus's wounds.**

The first thing he feels is his back against something rough.

Tree bark.

The first thing he sees is a cascade of red falling near but not onto his chest.

Red... hair.

The first thing he feels are gentle hands presses against his side and something stretching over his bare skin. He slowly inches his right hand to the left of his waist and feels the rough lattice of gauze.

He thinks the blue he sees is something wrong with his eyes, so he blinks harder and more often, but the blue doesn't clear. The bleariness of exhaustion does a tad and he can focus on the toe of his right boot. He squeezes his eyes shut again, opens them, regards the boot, and notices everything is still blanketed in blue light. He wiggles his foot. Pins and needles spring to life on his soul, and he bites down on his lip to prevent a groan from escaping.

"Stay still. I'm almost done."

Theseus shivers. The voice is so close! He slides his gaze to the left, but his eyes can't focus on anything yet. All he sees is an orb of beige, topped with red, with fingers and a forearm protruding.

"My foot's asleep," he mutters.

"Just one more minute, okay?" the blob answers. The blurry blob has a sweet voice. Clearly feminine, gentle, soothing by nature. Her hands work softly, but Theseus's midriff feels secure under her handiwork. "It could have been a lot worse," she says, more for herself - he can tell - but he listens in all the same. "Thank god it didn't hit any organs, vital or otherwise. What even _did_ this?"

"An axe," returns Theseus. "Why are you doing this?"

"I learned from my mother back home," she says, "in case my life depended on it. Or, in case someone else's."

"But aren't you from District Two? Shouldn't you want to win?"

After his next blink, she comes into focus. He catches her conflicted expression in the few seconds her head is raised. Then, she ducks her attention back to the wound.

"I am..." Something in her tone sounds bitter. "But not all from Two are Careers. My mom, she was a rebel. Totally against the Capital. My Dad... you know, it's complicated. No one really likes my family there. Stuff that happened just a generation before me. Don't ask, I don't know."

Theseus swallows the questions rising up this throat. The Non-Career presses down to tuck the end of the gauze strand under what is already securely wrapped, and he lets out an involuntary huff.

"Sorry," the redhead says. One beat passes... and then... "I'm finished."

Theseus moves a hand to the forest floor and pushes down to shift his weight a little, but a sharp pain flashes in his side. He screws his eyes shut; a grunt escapes his lips.

"It's going to take a few hours of rest before the pain lessens." She pauses to read Theseus's unsatisfied expression. "I know."

The girl sits back on her heels and looks around for a place to settle. She pulls herself to a nearby tree, sits with her back to the trunk, and stretches out her legs. She falls into a silence, one which Theseus reflects and one which lasts for a few minutes. Theseus is able to admire the serenity of the forest, especially now at dusk. The air is darker with a bluish quality, since the sun decided at the dawn of the day to hide behind a layer of clouds instead of show its face. A chill sneaks under his rain jacket, so the boy from Nine fumbles with the zipper. He tugs it up, but it serves as only a mild relief. He is still shivering. His side still throbs. To make matters worse, his brain aches from a lack of water.

After an inhale of gaseous courage, he asks, "What do I call you?"

She takes a minute to realise someone spoke.

"Clary."

"Thank you, Clary."

"You're welcome."


	7. Day One: Arthur & Freya

_Day One. Afternoon_.

* * *

**Jonathan, Arthur, and Prim get into a fight. Jonathan triumphantly kills them both.**

How did Arthur land himself here, lying flat on his back in the middle of a clearing, defeated by a boy from Seven? Arthur is a Career, trained since birth in the art of winning! He cannot be defeated, or so his father says. His father, a Victor of his own day, incapable of not bragging for one singular day. Impressing him is all Arthur ever wants to do. _But this isn't impressive_, he thinks. He dived in front of a little girl like a fool, a girl who will be cut down anyway now that Arthur is successfully out of the way. From his position on the ground, he glares at his attacker.

Jonathan merely grins. It is a wicked grin.

"How about I let you live?" he begins. Against his better judgement, a swell of hope fills Arthur. "Live long enough to see me kill what you thought you could save."

He nudges Arthur with his foot until the boy from District One is fully on his left side and watching a girl writhe in agony on the same ground. She is screaming, her blonde hair matted with sweat and blood. Arthur cringes. He cannot watch. He _will_ not. He closes his eyes.

"WATCH ME!" Jonathan bellows, snapping the reluctant Career out of his attempt at rebellion. Arthur feels something pointed touch his ankle and trail up his leg until stopping at his ribcage. He tenses. His left hand clenches into a fist. "See? That's better."

_Psychopath_, thinks Arthur.

The psychopath stalks up to the helpless girl. Arthur knows who she is, just vaguely. She is Prim from District Twelve. He remembers her sister sobbing at the reaping, too stunned to volunteer in time. By the time she screamed out her wish ("I volunteer!"), the reaping already moved on to the boy tribute and the sister was escorted away.

Jonathan hefts his sword and hovers it over the girl. He mimes a strike, as if to practice his aim, then raises the sword again. Both feet planted on the ground, two hands wrapped around the hilt, he bores his gaze straight into Arthur's own. "Nobility and honour have no place in the Hunger Games," he says and plunges the sword straight down.

It is the loudest scream yet. Arthur rolls his head to the other side, but his body will only let him stare at the sky.

_Overcast_, he notes, _with patches of dark and light grey. Like any Autumn day_.

"You can't run," begins Jonathan. Arthur cannot see him - he stares straight up, still. "You can't look away." Jonathan's face blocks the view of the peaceful clouds above, rendering everything darker - less like Autumn, more like a coffin. "All you can do" – he hefts his blade into the air – "is scream."

He thrusts the sword into Arthur's middle.

Everything goes black with pain.

* * *

_Day One. Late Afternoon._

* * *

**Freya searches for firewood.**

Freya knows how to tell time with just the sky. Even overcast, which poses a challenge, can be read. She angles her head up to the sky and knows the sun to be at its Summer six o'clock position. How does she know? She learned during early morning fishing expeditions with her father. Early morning is the best time to catch a fish, she learned. Sometimes, certain species are active in the evening, which was another frequent time they would head out, but morning always was her favourite. It still is.

She stalks through the forest in pursuit of firewood. The air isn't particularly dry, she notices. She knows it hasn't rained – the clouds say it _will_ rain – so where is the moisture coming from?

Excitedly, she drops her search and races into the wind. She crashes through leaves, brambles, branches, and bushes. One thing remains on her mind, and by the time she stops running, she stands on the edge of the one thing she hoped to find: a lake. Without thinking, she peels off her outer layers and dives into the deep. Water plugs all of her and coats her skin, but she doesn't mind. She doesn't even mind the fresh water feeling. She is in a home away from home.

Her legs kick up and propel her to the centre of the lake. Arms swing up over her head, then splash behind her. She smiles. Some say there is no smiling in the Hunger Games, and just five minutes earlier she would have agreed. But with her entire body submerged, she can find fault with such a sentiment.

One can smile anywhere, they merely have to find the right things.

For Freya, the lake is her right thing.


End file.
